


Awake, Arise

by analineblue



Category: No. 6 - Asano Atsuko
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-09-18
Updated: 2011-09-18
Packaged: 2017-11-03 14:36:35
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,949
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/382400
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/analineblue/pseuds/analineblue
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>An awkward moment or two, in which Shion is curious about Eve, and Nezumi discovers his breaking point.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Awake, Arise

**Author's Note:**

> So I just can't seem to get this series off of my mind, especailly after that last episode, and this is my attempt to write something a little fluffier for them... with kissing. Yes. ^_~

_“Awake, arise or be for ever fall’n.”_  
\--John Milton, _Paradise Lost_

**

They’ve just finished dinner, their plates and bowls are still sitting on the table in front of them, and in the dim, windowless silence Nezumi taps his finger on the arm of the couch idly. He’s trying to remember whether it’s his turn or Shion’s to do the washing up when suddenly there’s a shift in the air. 

It’s not an uncommon occurrence -- this inhabitant of Nezumi’s space, this usurper of his solitude, has always possessed this rather maddening habit. Shion has the power to transform the air between them from comfortable silence into something else entirely in an instant.

Nezumi waits for it. 

“Eve,” Shion says quietly, and he’s leaning in so close that Nezumi can feel the warmth radiating off of his body in waves. 

Shion is looking straight at him, his eyes unblinking but calm. He’s undeniably warm, but a chill runs down Nezumi’s spine anyway. It’s not the first time Shion has called him by this name, but something about Shion’s voice sets him on edge. It’s like Shion is experimenting with the word, gauging Nezumi’s reaction.

“That name…” Shion continues, and he’s tilting his head at him slightly, as if Nezumi is some sort of rare specimen. “Why did you choose that name?”

And then suddenly, he reaches out and touches Nezumi’s cheek. The gesture is so unexpectedly tender that Nezumi can’t help but flush. His skin prickles with heat under Shion’s fingers, and his heart is pounding so hard he’s sure Shion must be able to hear it.

But Shion is just staring at him as if there’s nothing strange about this at all as he moves his hand back to rest in his lap.

“You’re blushing,” Shion says finally, with an air of amusement, and Nezumi kind of wants to hit him.  
Instead, he swallows, and lets out a long breath, counting to six-seven-eight before he’s able to look Shion in the face again. 

“Why are you blushing?” Shion asks. Unrelenting, as always.

His eyes are searching Nezumi’s face now, and it’s in moments like this that Nezumi wonders just what Shion’s game is, because the innocence, the naiveté, they somehow seem to disappear when Shion looks at him like this, like there’s something written all over Nezumi’s skin in a language only he understands.

Nezumi lets out another breath and stares forward. “I’m not,” he says finally, and then frowns. “And why are you calling me that? I’ve told you before – it’s strange.”

“It suits you,” Shion observes, as if he hasn’t heard a word Nezumi has said. “ _Eve_ ,” he says again, drawing the syllables out, like he’s rolling them around in his mouth and tasting them. 

“I like it,” Shion says, and Nezumi is acutely aware of the exact distance of Shion’s thigh from his on the couch, of the proximity of Shion’s hands, lying as they are on his lap. He hazards a glance at Shion’s face.

“It’s a stage name, that’s all,” he tells him, and tries to resist the urge to crawl out of his own skin, tries not to think about Shion’s lips, or about Shion’s fingers, tracing smooth lines along his flesh.

“Hmm…” Shion says, and the sound is a low murmur, a rumbling in the back of his throat. His lips are pursed together in thought. 

Nezumi stares at the wall, at the bookshelf, at the books. Yes, the _books_. Even though they’re not organized in any normal sense of the word, Nezumi knows all of them by shape, by the curves and worn places along their spines. He could recite passages from most of them by memory – it’s like having a small reference library in his head; a quote for every occasion.

“ _My author and disposer, what thou bidd'st, unargued I obey_ ,” Nezumi announces suddenly, adding a little flourish at the end with his hand, and a grim smile. But Shion hasn’t read half of the books here, probably not even a quarter of them.

His references never make any sense to Shion. They’re utterly wasted.

It’s frustrating.

It’s not Shion’s fault.

The hairs on Nezumi’s arms are standing on end. 

“ _Paradise Lost_ ,” he explains, when Shion just stares at him with wide eyes, as if he’s waiting for him to go on. “Adam and Eve in the Garden of Eden.” 

“Oh,” Shion says, and nods, a little sadly. Nezumi sighs.

“It’s right there on the second shelf if you’re curious,” he says, and then his breath catches in his throat when his eyes meet Shion’s. 

“What?” The question is reflexive; he’s not really sure he wants to know the answer. 

“Nothing,” Shion says, and the room stills with a heavy silence, until he speaks again. “Nezumi?” he asks, sounding earnest and serious and Nezumi wonders if he should be confused or worried or both. “Why can’t I call you Eve?”

“I never said you couldn’t,” Nezumi tells him quickly. “It’s just weird, that’s all.” 

“Why is it weird?” 

Nezumi lets out a breath. “It just is."

And suddenly, Shion is reaching behind his head. At first he can’t figure out what Shion’s fingers are doing – he can feel them pressing against the base of his neck, fumbling, like trying to flip on a light switch in the dark, and then he realizes that Shion is tugging at the tie in his hair.

Nezumi’s eyes go wide as he feels Shion’s fingers awkwardly struggling with the knot until he figures out how to release it, and Nezumi’s hair falls to his shoulders. Nezumi blinks, stunned into silence for a moment.  
“What the hell are you doing?” he finally manages. 

Shion is, inexplicably, smiling at him. Warmly. He’s smoothing down Nezumi’s hair around his face as it brushes against his shoulders, grasping handfuls here and there, and spreading the strands out over his palm as if he’s examining a collection of rare precious stones.

“Stop it,” he says quickly, batting Shion’s hand away.

Shion is still smiling. His hands are still moving too, still threading their way through Nezumi’s hair. He lets Shion have his way for another moment, half-wondering when he’ll stop, _if_ he’ll stop, and when he doesn’t, Nezumi catches Shion’s hand in his and grips it tightly. He watches Shion’s entire demeanor change, like a child caught red-handed by an angry parent.

“Nezu--” Shion starts, but Nezumi presses two fingers against his lips, and leans in close.

“ _Eve_ ,” he corrects, and tilts his head so that his hair falls forward and brushes against Shion’s cheek. “Like this, I’m Eve,” he says, his voice pitched low. He narrows his eyes. A challenge, maybe.

And Shion just nods, as if this is a perfectly normal conversation they’re having, and slowly pries Nezumi’s fingers from his lips with a strange sense of grace.

He studies Nezumi for a moment, and then moves his hand to tuck a strand of Nezumi’s hair behind his left ear.  
And that’s it. That’s the tipping point. The spark inside of him that startles him awake.

Shion’s hand has barely moved away and Nezumi is pushing him onto his back, pressing their bodies together and leaning forward, so that his elbows and his forearms and his wrists are pressing down on Shion’s chest. Shion’s lungs expand underneath him. He stares down at Shion for a moment, and then wraps one hand tightly around Shion’s jaw, tilting his chin upwards, holding him in place.

He doesn’t resist. Of course he doesn’t. 

Shion rarely resists, and so Nezumi just goes ahead and crushes their lips together. Then he moves and shifts until he’s got the right angle and grinds his hips against Shion’s, slowly and deliberately. Shion gasps into his mouth and parts his lips, and it’s like it always is – Nezumi can’t decide what to focus on first, so he focuses on everything all at once, and for a few glorious moments, or minutes, or hours, he’s on sensory overload. 

Shion’s lips, his tongue, the soft skin of his stomach under Nezumi’s fingers - they all vie for his attention, until he and Shion are gasping for breath against each other’s lips and Shion is just staring up at him as if this too is a perfectly natural and normal turn of events. And maybe it is. 

Nezumi doesn’t question it anymore, hasn’t for a while - he just goes with it, just lets himself catch his breath, and lets Shion rise up on his elbows to capture his lips again. He lets Shion take control, too, and then it’s Shion’s tongue guiding his, and Shion’s body shifting underneath him until Nezumi has been flipped over onto his back, and Shion is staring down at him, his eyes wide and glistening.

More than anything Nezumi wants to shut himself off from this feeling – it’s as if Shion is looking so deep into his eyes that he can see everything, all the darkness and hatred and ugliness – but he can’t look away. Shion is just _staring_ at him, at his hair that’s splayed out around his head, and suddenly Nezumi feels like Eve, feels like he’s on stage, like he’s under those bright lights, under that scrutiny. Maybe this is what Shion wanted. It’s frustrating, somehow, knowing that he’s gotten it with so little struggle.

“Your hair is so pretty,” Shion says, and he doesn’t look embarrassed at all, and Nezumi just stares at him - it’s like staring into the sun. He knows he should look away, that there’s _damage_ to be done here, but he doesn’t, he just watches Shion stare down at him for what feels like hours. 

“You’re so _weird_ ,” Nezumi says eventually, and then he tugs at the sleeve of Shion’s sweater, longing to taste those lips again, craving it like he only allows himself to crave it these moments when it’s so close like this, when he knows he won’t have to wait very long. 

Nezumi is good at waiting, but sometimes he feels like he’s used up all of his patience when it comes to Shion and really, he just wants to taste Shion’s lips, wants to feel the firm press of Shion’s chest against his own, wants Shion’s bony elbows poking into his ribs, and his collarbone jutting out against his neck. 

“ _Shion_ ,” he whispers, and the word is barely audible, it’s just barely hovering there between them, but it’s such an important word, he has to say it, because unless it’s like this, Nezumi won’t be able to. The word will stick in his throat and bury itself there – eventually infection will set in, it’ll blister and fester and ooze. It’ll turn into something ugly, something that Shion would surely turn away from in disgust.

It’s like there’s something ready to burst inside of him in these moments, and he knows that Shion knows it too; he can see it reflected back at him in Shion’s eyes, can feel it in the ease with which Shion parts his lips, and in the relief that spreads through every inch of his body when he closes his eyes and lets it all wash over him. Shion _knows_. 

And he’ll cut this off with his lips. Shion will seal Nezumi’s heart away with a kiss, always. 

And for a brief moment, Nezumi wonders if maybe this is all just a clever game they’ve chosen to play with each other, where they pretend to be miles apart, where they pretend not to understand a thing about each other, when really, _really_ , Shion is right here.

Shion is doing this for him. For both of them, maybe. 

And Nezumi doesn’t think he could be more grateful if he tried. 

***


End file.
